Wednesday, March 13, 2013

poem of the day 03.13.13

juice bar

my wife and i
stand in line at a juice bar

we’ve decided not to drink on sundays
because we’re getting older

because sundays have always been
an alcohol free-for-all

arguments and sloppy sex
movies neither of us remember
and books we’ll have to reread the next day

this is sober sunday

so we’re in a juice bar line
with dozens of others

thin people who never wake up on monday morning
hot with sunday hangovers
really feeling the actuality of their death

and the juice bar is decked out in green and orange
and other earthy colors

there are pictures of hearts all over the place
to remind you that you are doing something
good for the body

i imagine regular bars decked out in bleak colors

blacks and grays and whites
and pictures of saturated livers hanging about

but this just makes me wish that  i was in a bar
instead of in a juice bar line

with dozens of young people texting
or bobbing their heads to the loud and terrible
disney pop playing overhead

covers of covers of old songs

with other aging assholes fooling themselves
on a sunday afternoon

and the juice bar workers are overly friendly
when someone walks in the door

one of the workers shouts, welcome to jammin’ juice
then it is like a chain, an echo of workers
whether busy or not


welcome to jammn’
welcome to jammin’
welcome to jammin’

the whole thing reeks of artifice
a corporate ideal of hospitality

complete with a shot of wheatgrass
to help keep you on this planet longer than you’d like to be

it’s like being in a foreign country actually

and each time you place an order
the juice bar worker takes your name
instead of giving you a number

you do not get a paper receipt
because we’re all saving the world in this juice bar

it’s not the workers fault that it is this way
they need to make a buck

chances are good most of these people
would be getting drunk with their sunday

or standing in a juice bar line somewhere else

when your healthy drink comes up
your smoothie
or your juice mixed with crushed ice

one of the juice bar workers shouts your name
like they’ve known you forever

and the young stop texting for a moment
to go up to the counter for their sixty-ounce blast

of pomegranate paradise
or peach passion
or strawberry swirl

sucking it half way down before they even leave the juice bar
while the rest of us stand there

listening to the disney music
the whirl of blenders

the door opening to a folksy bell
and another chorus of

welcome to jammin’
welcome to jammin’
welcome to jammin’

the blood pressure rising
a sense of propriety shot to shit
when each new drink that arrives is not our order

my wife and i
standing in this juice bar line
on a sober sunday afternoon

still somewhat convinced we’re doing something good
something healthy

instead of shoving down all of that poison
in the quiet of our own home

or sitting in a dead bar
with a cold beer

watching the warm sun shower the good earth
from behind smeared glass

just like the good lord
originally intended.


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